Another Day to Discard
by glanmire
Summary: Charles is truly and utterly happy. Hank the Scientist - who is perfect in all ways - is his boyfriend, and he has his radio show. It's all he ever wanted. He's happy. So very, very happy. Definitely happy.


Charles is truly and utterly happy. Hank the Scientist - who is perfect in all ways - is his boyfriend, and he has his radio show. It's all he ever wanted.

He's happy. So very, very happy. Definitely happy.

He speaks sonorously into the microphone, eyes closed as he imagines the scene he's telling, hands gesticulating for emphasis - not that the listeners can see that. Because of closed eyes, he doesn't see the man in a leather jacket quietly open the studio door, nor does he see this man take the seat opposite himself, which is reserved for guests. "Charles?" the man says, and Charles' eyes finally snap open.

"…Old Woman Josie says the angels are, umm, well, I'll tell you after the weather. Now, yeah, the weather," he says hurriedly, thrown off by the man's presence. Also, there's something about the stranger that makes Charles want to conduct this conversation off-air. After all, you never know who might be listening.

The man is not perfect. He's not a scientist either, that much is certain. The gun he has in his pocket is the first clue towards that hypothesis; other telling hints are that he wears a leather jacket in lieu of a lab coat, and that he didn't knock first before barging into the studio. Scientists always knock first. They're very considerate people.

"We need to talk," the stranger says in a low, compelling voice.

Charles takes off the headphones he wears during the show and sighs. He's missing Doom Tree - 'Team the Best Team' for this, which is one of his favourite songs. "What do you want?" he asks crabbily, but not too crabbily either, because firstly the guy does have a gun and secondly it's not just his voice that's compelling. That is to say, he's a very attractive man.

"Fuck," the attractive man in the leather jacket says, which is a brilliant way to start a conversation in Charles' opinion. "Don't tell me you've forgotten again."

"Forgotten what?" Charles asks. "There's only two minutes left in the weather, so make your case quickly."

"I'm Erik Lehnsherr," the man says, extending a hand. It's strong and lightly calloused, and Charles shakes, baffled by, well, everything that has just happened. "I'm a mutant," Erik continues.

Charles jerks back, his spiny-office-chair skidding along the floor. "Mutants aren't real. If you could please get the hell out of my studio now."

Erik looks like he's disappointed in him, which is ridiculous, because they don't even know each other. "Watch," he says, waving a hand, and an assortment of objects begin to float into the air. Looking closely, Charles sees that they are all made of metal; his paperclips, his stapler, and loose coins all are surging upwards like gravity is nothing.

"Neat trick," he says, cooly as he can, though he's begun to sweat and hopes Erik doesn't notice. "One minute left."

Erik leans even closer. "Come on Charles," he urges. "You remember. You _know_ this. You know that you're a mutant too-"

"Excuse me?" Charles asks, actually offended now. "I don't think so. Could you please leave-"

"Charles. Listen to me." Erik pushes his own chair closer, and grips Charles' knee tightly. "Charles, you know about everything that's going on in the town without leaving the studio. You're a telepath Charles, and you're reading all this stuff off people's minds."

Erik's eyes are glinting, and Charles stares into them. They're familiar, a light grey-blue colour, and he stares and stares -

and he remembers, just like that.

"Erik," he gasps. "Bless your patience, seriously. This must be getting very repetitive for you."

"It's alright," Erik says, staring at him, his hand still on Charles' knee.

"Well, are you okay, is everything all right?" Charles asks, confused why Erik is here, right now. He does have a radio show to run after all.

"We need to talk after the show," Erik says. "Will you please try to remember this time?"

"I will, I will," he promises, and then makes a face despite himself. "I'm so sorry to rush you Erik but the weather is ending…"

Erik waves a hand, and the metal objects fall again, a gentle pitter-patter on the desk. He stands smoothly, and reaches for the headphones, and slides them onto Charles' head, over his ears, and then leans in, his mouth right beside Charles' ear. "Remember," he says softly, and then he's gone, and Charles shivers.

The weather ends, and Charles says, "Welcome back listeners. Reports are coming in all over town," - though that's a lie, there's no texts or emails, they don't even have a system like that in place. He's reading these reports from people's minds. How on earth could he have ever missed that?

He does the rest of the show in a very distracted manner. He's utterly focused on remembering something, after all. He has to remembering a man. The man in the leather jacket. What had the man wanted? It mustn't have been important, or surely Charles would remember his face, his voice, even what they had spoken about. No, it must not have mattered at all.

"Charles?" a man says, standing outside the studio, throwing away a half-smoked cigarette.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" Charles says blankly.

The man sighs. "You know, I'm getting real tired of this shit. I'm Erik. You're a mutant. Your boyfriend is a simpering pansy in a labcoat."

"…what was that?"

"Would you just get in the car?"

Charles sits in the passenger seat, watching Erik break all of the speed-limits, which are of course dictated by semaphore flags. His memory is back again, though it took longer this time. Maybe that should be worrying, but it's hard to focus on nagging fear when he can watch the streetlights cut golden streaks into Erik's face as they drive by.

"Where are we going?" he asks, though it doesn't seem to matter all that much to him, which definitely should be worrying.

"Read my mind," Erik says simply, staring straight ahead. Charles doesn't know how to - it can't be that easy, surely - but he focuses and pushes and reaches and then catches a glimpse of something, like something you half-see in the corner of your eye, a shadow.

"Trailer park?" he hazards, and Erik may be smiling now, but in the low light, it's hard to tell.

"Good job. Can you figure it out from that much?"

Charles can, now. "Old woman Josie," he says, not knowing what he's going to say next but knowing it's true. "You're staying with her. Not just you. All of them."

Erik does smile now, just for a second. "Josie's a good lady. She's a bit confused though. I told her I was Erik and now she's got it into her head that we're all named Erika and there's no convincing her otherwise. As for Angel, well, you'll see when you get there." He says this kindly, like the way you talk about a beloved grandmother.

"Does she know you're a mutant?"

"She knows enough. More than you do, most days anyway."

Charles almost blushes. "Do you know why I keep forgetting?"

Erik finally turns to look at him, which should be worrying - he's not concentrating on the road after all, though with Erik's mutation, Charles has no fear of him crashing the car. "Charles, if I knew that, all would be well."

The trailer, out near the car lot, is small but wonderful. Fairy lights dangle from every possible thing that could be used as a hook. Erik half-smiles when Charles asks him about it. "Mystique fancies herself as a bit of a designer. The lights are because we're angels, seemingly."

"So, really all that stuff about angels is nonsense?"

Erik shrugs. It's a strange gesture on him - it's more relaxed than Charles has ever seen him, and he realises that Erik feels at ease here. "Old Woman Josie thinks we're angels, because well, she saw Angel once and-"

"You called, honey?" a girl's voice says from the trailer, and a tanned girl emerges from the trailer, another girl with blue skin following closely behind.

"Just telling Charles about the wing incident-" Erik says.

"Ah yes, well I'd just had a shower, and was stretching my wings. Josie saw them, and now she thinks we all have them. The rest is history."

Charles really didn't absorb a word of that. He's still staring at the blue girl.

"You're blue," he states.

She looks down at her arm and yelps. "Omigod, I am! Get it off me!" and then smirks.

Angel and Erik laugh, but the blue girl's face turns serious again.

"Yeah, I'm blue. Is that an issue?"

"No," Charles says, and he's being honest. "It's just, a culture shock, or something."

That gets a smile out of her. "There's weirder than me in this town if you open your eyes at all. Erik, we're going out."

Erik nods, and the two girls catch hands and stroll away. Charles is still in awe.

"Is that her power? Being blue? That doesn't make any sense-"

"Want a beer?" Erik asks, going into the trailer and dodging the question.

"Sure," Charles says. "Erik, you have to tell me, who are the other mutants in town? Are there even anymore?"

Erik actually laughs then, emerging from the trailer, a cooler box levitating behind him. It's short but wonderful sound, and his eyes even crinkle a little. "Charles, Night Vale is like a gold mine of mutants. There's way more than the average here."

Charles moves his deckchair closer and grabs a beer. "Who else then?"

Erik smiles, and takes a long drink from his own bottle. "Guess."

Charles smiles too. "Well, there are some excellent candidates." He contemplates it for a second. "The Faceless Old Woman?" he guesses, and he feels Erik's mind ring true with the _yes _of it before he even can reply. It sounds like a clear, high note, or maybe it tastes like cold water. Charles frowns because it's hard to describe; it's not just the word _yes, _it's what that the word feels like to Erik, an abstract concept in colours and emotions.  
"She does invisibility, mainly," Erik admits. "I haven't recruited her though because she's also nutty. She really does eat highlighters, and she's unreliable, but generally harmless."

"She was running for mayor," Charles says reflectively.

Erik turns towards him, sudden urgency in his posture, his voice.

"You have to understand that she was never going to win, Charles. Oh we cast our votes alright, but the actual result is interpreted from Hidden Gorge. Isn't that a little suspicious to you?"

"It's rigged?" Charles asks, dumbfounded.

Erik cracks his neck, and leans back again. "Thank god I don't keep you around to let me know what's really going on around here. Of course the election's rigged."

Charles doesn't ask why Erik _does_ keep him around. The answer is in their postures, the stars above them, the lights shimmering above the Arby's, but especially in Erik's mind, where the word _Charles _feels warm and sure and right. Charles thinks of how when you stroke a cat in just the right way, and the deep purr that reverberates through the room is a sound but also an emotion too. That's kind of what _Charles _feels like in Erik's mind.

He understands now, a bit more.

Erik is driving Charles home before Charles realises something.

"Why did you come to the studio today? There wasn't any great emergency…"

Erik is silent, and Charles thinks about fairy lights and beers under the stars and he knows why.

"Pull over," he says quietly. Erik complies, not saying a word, and there's still times, even now, to stop from what he wants to do. There's still time to drive home to Hank.

Charles undoes his seatbelt. It unclicks loudly in the silence, and he takes a breath. Erik looks at him, waiting for an explanation, but Charles has nothing. He carefully climbs over the gearstick and almost onto Erik's lap, pressed in tight in the space, the steering wheel against his back.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, staying utterly still, his face an inch from Erik's, his weight on Erik's legs.

"You have a stupid, perfect boyfriend," Erik says slowly.

"I want you," Charles says, and mashes their faces together so they can bloody well stop talking already.

This is cheating. He knows very well it's cheating and that's it's cruel and unfair to Hank -

and then Erik pulls them closer together, his strong hands on Charles' hips, and their lips meet and it's not like Hank's kisses at all. Hank always kisses Charles goodnight and goodbye. He kisses Charles like he knows he's supposed to, and they are perfect kisses, not too short or too long, just passionate enough.

Erik's kiss is imperfect. They bang heads first, in the lowlight, and then teeth, but only for a second, and it's all in the angle, the way Charles is crushed on top of Erik in the seat, the leather under his hands. Fumbling, he undoes Erik's seatbelt, and Erik leans forward hungrily, pushing Charles back against the dashboard. It's messy and wonderful and Charles half-rips the shirt off Erik, and pushes his pants down too. In the fumbling, Charles accidentally elbows the horn, which echoes through the night, abruptly loud. He catches Erik's eye and then they're both laughing at the ridiculousness of it, of a car horn, and the beers make it funnier and makes them clumsier, and so it's not perfect, not at all, but it_is_.

Erik leans forward again and they're kissing and Charles is hard, and Erik's hand grazes over his cock, just for a second, and he makes an entirely incoherent sound. He pushes himself so he's back on top of Erik and then there's just the rhythm, the grind and push of their bodies.

"Charles," Erik says softly, and Charles loses himself in it. Erik's hands are on him, all over him like he's a marvel, a wondrous thing to touch, and those strong hands slide up his back and grip into the skin on his shoulder blades.

He pants when it is over, when neither of them have anything left to give. Charles falls forward against Erik's bare chest. Erik is quiet, but repositions himself so Charles is on his lap, his head on Erik's collar bone. Erik idly traces tattoos into Charles back with a finger, and even now, Charles still shivers. His skin is sensitive, still craving touch, but he's content too, in this car, in this moment. He breathes heavily, still, and Erik breathes too, and it's enough. It will be enough.

After a subjective hour - it might have been just been minutes - Erik leans back in his seat, openly studying Charles. Charles doesn't know what to do under that gaze, or where he's supposed to look. He fidgets with his sleeve, guilt coming back to him now. Guilt that's too late to make a difference, but that's still able to hurt, that makes him feel sick that he did this, not because it wasn't what he wanted but because of Hank.

"You want to get back to Perfect Hank," Erik says flatly.

Charles looks up, not denying it, but ashamed nonetheless.

"I'll drive you back," Erik says, like it's nothing.

It's a quiet journey. There's nothing really to say. Charles contemplates leaving earnest Hank, and the apartment they share, and moving in with Erik and all the other mutants, all crammed into one old woman's trailer. Having no radio show, no friends, no life.

He can't.

"I won't ask you to leave him," Erik says. "I understand that you and him have a happy relationship. He'll propose - perfectly, I might add - and then you'll adopt a darling set of Vietnamese twins, a boy and a girl, and you'll live happily ever after."

Charles squirms in his seat. "It's not like that."

Erik turns to him, eyes ablaze. "What? Oh sorry, will the twins be from China instead? Where's topical enough for you Charles?"

"Don't be like this."

"'I want you'. That's what you said. Not, 'I want you when it suits me but I can forget after so there's not even any guilt.'"

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not. You know what Charles? No fucking way am I going to waste my time jogging your memory again. I don't care if you're a mutant. You most certainly don't seem to."

Charles' seatbelt undoes itself, and his door swings open. Erik's hands are balled into fists.

"Just get out," Erik orders, and Charles does. It's not a long walk to his and Hank's apartment from here, not at all. Stepping through the doorway of their apartment, he feels like a different person, like that was another Charles. He walks up the flight of stairs, and with hands that aren't shaking, not at all, unlocks the apartment. It's empty and dark.

He roots around in his pockets and checks his phone. An unseen message from Hank.

_Sorry, going to be late at the lab tonight. don't wait up. xx. _

He goes to the shower, and looking forward to forgetting.

On the way to the studio, he passes a man in a leather jacket. He twists so not to bump into the man, but the man moves, and they knock hard together. Charles spills coffee all over himself - jesus christ, that's hot - and the man laughs at him.

"Something funny?" Charles snaps.

"Maybe you should have gotten one of your interns to get it for you if you can't even manage to cross the street," the man says, cruelly.

Charles doesn't remember it afterwards, but the anger sits in his chest all day anyway, congealing in his gut like bad Chinese food, and he lashes out at Hank that night.

It's two weeks later. Two weeks since Hank was home late? That seems to be an odd event to be counting the days since. Was there something else?

Anyway, it's been two weeks, though why that should matter, he can't fathom.

Charles lets himself into their apartment. Hank is typing on his laptop. His eyes flick up to Charles' in greeting, and then he goes back to typing.

"So," Charles says after a moment, "how was your day?"

"Well, I did some research on the house that only looks like it exists," Hank says. There's a pause, and Charles realises that Hank is waiting for a prompt so he can continue.

"And..?" he says half-heartedly, and Hank launches into a tirade about the house, about John Peters - y'know, the farmer - and Charles feels himself slipping away, like bathwater going from lukewarm to cold, the difference only being a few degrees, but meaning everything.

"Did you have a good day?" Hank asks eventually, and Charles looks up, startled.

"It was unmemorable," he says, and then yawns. "I'm going to go to bed."

Hank hesitates. "I'll follow you up pretty soon, if you don't mind, it's just that there's a documentary coming on-"

Charles impulsively leans in and kisses Hank on the lips. Hank humours him for a second, and then pulls away. "Thought that you were tired," he says gently, kissing Charles on the cheek.

"I am," Charles says, and he is, and it's a tiredness that makes him cold and lonely somehow, although his boyfriend is only inches away.

"Goodnight then," Hank says.

"Yeah," he says in return, and drags himself into bed.

A man in a leather jacket stands at the door, a blue girl further back.

"Erik. Mystique," Charles says.

Erik raises a brow.

"She's pretty memorable," Charles says. "It brought it all back."

Standing under the porch light, Charles understands how Old Woman Josie mistook Erik for an angel.

"Who is it?" Hank calls from the kitchen.

"I need to talk to Hank," Erik says.  
"Hank?"

"You know, your boyfriend who's perfect and adorable and wonderful in every way," Erik says flatly.

"Why?" Charles asks, not moving.

Erik runs a hand through his hair. "Because he's a scientist and I need his help, alright?"

"With what?"

Erik steps forward. "Listen Charles, you don't get to be the asshole here. That's my job. I'm only here because I'm trying to save your goddamn life, so pull that rod out of your ass and get out of the way."

Charles blinks. This Erik is not the one who held him in the car and drank beers under the stars. This Erik is _mean._

"Okay," he says, and steps inside, and Erik and Mystique follow him. Charles can't see him, but he presumes Erik is glaring at the little domestic things, the pictures of Charles and Hank that make this place a home.

Erik strides into the kitchen and shakes Hank's hand. "Erik Lehnsherr," he says. Hank looks to Charles in confusion. "Is this a friend of yours? You've never mentioned him."

"Oh myself and Charles have a long, memorable history," Erik says, and Mystique barks a laugh.

"Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?" Hank asks. Erik pulls out a chair and sits. "I'm good thanks," he says, a hard edge somehow still in his voice.

"I'd take a coffee," Mystique says, and Charles moves to make it. It's something to do with his hands at least.

"Hank. I hear you're a scientist," Erik says.

Hank nods, still looking perplexed.

"Charles here is a telepath. Did you know that?"

"Erik!" Charles shouts, spilling coffee granules all over the countertop. Hank's expression is neutral. "Pardon?" he says flatly.

"I said, Charles is a telepath. A mutant," Erik says. "And thing is, he can't remember things. Like the fact that he's a telepath. It keeps conveniently slipping his mind."

Hank pulls at his sleeves. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Charles recovers from the coffee situation and says, "Erik, get to the point, please."

Erik glances at him, just for a second. "Sure. Sorry to be inconveniencing you like this. Anyway Hank, the thing is, Charles forgets. And when he speaks on his show, people who listen forget too. I even forgot I was a mutant when I listened one day until Mystique so kindly prompted me."

Mystique smiles at Hank. It's really more of a baring-her-teeth-thing than a smile.

"So, we think that something at the station is brainwashing Charles, and by proxy, anyone who listens to the show. Any ideas?"

Hank gulps. "Station management maybe? He's never seen them, they could be doing anything-"

"Think you could run some tests?" Charles asks. Hank looks at him like he'd forgotten he was there.

"Of course. I'll solve this."

"That would be great Hank," Erik says. "Mystique?"

Mystique nods, and then pulls out a gun from her pocket and holds it against Hank's head.

"You don't seem to know anything," Erik says, "so we might as well kill you. Can't have you snitching on us."

"Erik!" Charles roars, but Erik flicks out a hand and Charles is held back by invisible hands that tug at his belt, his buttons. "Stop it Erik, Jesus Christ, he doesn't, he won't-"

Hank has his hands held up high. "Please don't," he says weakly. "I won't tell a soul, I won't even remember."

"Can't take that chance," Mystique says evenly, and clicks off the safety. "Stop!" Charles yells. "You can't- stop!"

Hank closes his eyes and Charles can't take it and he screams, "_STOP!"_

Mystique stills, like she's frozen on the spot, a photograph instead of a video. Charles breathes heavily, holding onto the countertop.

"As I thought," Erik says, as if he's not surprised by this at all. "It's not just telepathy. You can control minds too."

"I need- I can't," Charles says, and Hank is still standing with his eyes closed, quivering. Charles pushes himself up and moves shakily to Hank. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," Hank says. "I'm okay, I'm fine." He holds out his hand and Charles takes it, grateful for the support. Erik watches, and then says, "I'd be grateful if you didn't leave Mystique stuck that way."

Charles looks at her properly. She's stock-still, more still than a human has a right to be. He doesn't know how she's breathing.

_release, _he thinks, feeling foolish, but she collapses forward, heaving in a breath - though her grip on her gun never goes slack.

"Neat trick," she says after a moment.

"Can someone please explain what's going on?" Hank asks.

"Sure," Erik says. "Mystique here came up with a theory that Charles could control minds. Which I thought was a little crazy. I mean, he's never shown any inclination towards being able to do that. But-"

"But someone is brainwashing everyone," Mystique finishes. "And you're speaking to everyone in town, all day every day."

"Very suspicious. So we said we'd test our theory."

"You used Hank as bait?" Charles asks.

Erik nods. "Well, it worked, didn't it?" He's actually smiling, like this is a good thing, like he thinks he should be praised.

"Get the fuck out of our apartment," Charles says and Erik's face falls.

"There's no need Charles- I'm fine, there's no damage done-" Hank says appeasingly, but Charles isn't listening. "Get out," he repeats, and he doesn't know if he's controlling them or not, but Mystique and Erik stand, looking something akin to guilty.

"We need to sort all this out," Erik says. "You can't continue doing the show."

"You've done enough damage tonight," Charles says. "Please, we can talk tomorrow, okay?"

Erik half-smiles. "I look forward to it."

Mystique even waves goodbye as they walk out the door.

Charles turns to Hank. "I'm so sorry Hank, I-"

"If I had friends like that, I'd do my best to forget them too," Hank says, and Charles laughs.

"You're not mad?"

"Mad? How could I be mad at you for not telling me something that you didn't even remember?" Hank pulls Charles closer, holding his arms around his waist. "I was scared for a minute there though."

"Me too," Charles admits, and Hank leans down and they kiss. Hank is warm and gentle and Charles sighs.

Charles wakes the next morning, groggy. He is not in his bedroom. He's sitting on a chair. It's one of the swivelly ones that he likes, which is good. He's also tied to it, which is bad. There's also a microphone and a set of headphones, which makes him even more uneasy.

"Er-" he says, and stops. "Hank?" he asks.

On inspection, he is in the abandoned mine shaft. This is obvious from the King-Sized bed in the corner, the television on the wall, and the penetrating smell of must.

His cell door opens. "Hey," Hank says, walking in. He's wearing a ridiculous helmet, with jagged arrows by the cheekbones.

"What's going on?" Charles asks.

Hanks carefully sits on the edge of the bed.

"You were so fucking dumb Charles."

"Hank?" he asks timidly.

"I mean, Jesus Christ, you're an actual real-life telepath, and you _lived _with me, and you still couldn't tell that I hated your guts."

"I'm not a very good telepath. I never remembered that I was one," Charles says, almost feeling like he should apologise for this.

Hank leans in really close, and that lab-coat that Charles always found endearing suddenly isn't anymore. Now he's at the dentist and the dentist is blaming him for his bleeding gums. Now he's a lab rat being electrified just because they were curious what would happen.

"Don't put yourself down like that," Hank says. "You're the best. We classify mutants on a scale, and Charles, you're off the charts."

"I am?" Charles asks. He thinks _let me go, _with all the authority he can muster, which isn't a lot right now.

Hank laughs. It's a condescending laugh, one that Charles has never heard from him. It's not attractive.

"Are you trying to control me? Bless." He raps at the helmet. "This isn't just for show. Your mutation doesn't work through this."

Charles frowns. This is all overwhelming. "How long has this been going on?"

""Well, you've been doing everything we need for over a year now. You're wiping everyone's minds and making our little incidents look like accidents. You convince them of anything. You tell them that an airplane just appeared in a stadium, and they'll swallow it, because of you Charles. You convinced a whole town to banish poor Telly the Barber. That's impressive, truly."

"No," Charles manages.

"Yes," Hank says. "You wipe their minds, making them think that mutants aren't real, making them afraid to even think about the word, so they can't band together, don't even know that they're mutants."

"I don't - why would I-"

"The dog park. You told them not to enter the dog park, because it's not a dog park at all. The electrified fence isn't to keep people out, it's to keep them in."

"Mutants," Charles breathes.

"The ones we find. What did you think me and my team of scientists were doing, all day, everyday? Earthquakes that no-one can feel? A house that's right in front of your eyes that we solemnly swear doesn't exist? You guys are pathetic."

"Who are you?" Charles asks.

"I'm the vague yet menacing government agency. I'm the unseen monsters behind the doors of station management. I'm the hooded figures in the dog park. I am the sheriff's secret police, the city council, the Night Vale daily journal," Hank says dramatically.

"Strexcorp?" Charles asks fearfully.

"No. You were getting too close, seeing things too clearly. Those tapes you found, that showed you had a brother you'd forgotten, we thought you'd surely act, surely investigate. Strex was a distraction, something you and everyone in the town could rally against, nothing more."

"If all of this is some master plan, for me to oppress everyone or whatever, how did you do it? Why do I forget? Why am I like this?"

Hank blinks. "I don't - I'm not authorised to-"

He waves a hand helplessly and Charles suddenly, searingly, gets it.

"You don't know." His voice has more authority in it than it's ever had before; he isn't asking a question. Hank looks at him, and Charles finally sees him for what he is; just a pretty boy in a lab coat who doesn't like being unable to solve a mystery.

"You don't know why I'm like this. You don't have a clue. All your talk and all your experiments and you're as clueless as I am. Does that bother you Hank?"

"We're making progress…"

"Are you?" Charles asks, his voice sarcastic and cutting. "Are you any closer to knowing? Does it bother you? Do you lie awake at night, wondering about my brain, worrying? Did it scare you, sleeping so close to the enemy?"

"No," Hank says weakly.

"It did. And you're scared now, because you know I can wipe your mind, break your mind, do whatever I like. Would you like to forget Hank, like I did?"

"No," Hank says again, shifting further away, his lab coat suddenly looking too large on him, like a child trying their father's billowing coat. "You can't, I have the helmet-"

"One lousy helmet against the strongest telepath in the world. You must be so confident. That helmet's metal, you absolute imbecile. Think you'll be wearing it long before Erik rips it off your head? You won't be perfect when he melts it into your fucking skull!"

Charles thrashes against his straps, and Hank hurriedly stands and exits the room. Bullies are cowards, and scientists are bullies, Charles reasons. He leans back into the chair, and wonders how he's meant to watch Netflix if he can't even turn on the tv.

A man in a lab coat walks into the room. Charles is really starting to hate lab coats.

Before he can ask for the remote - there has to be one somewhere - the man changes, ripples like pond water, and in front of him Mystique.

"Hiya," she says.

"What?" Charles says dumbly.

"Oh Charlie-"

"Don't call me that, please-"

"You never did ask what my mutation was. For a reporter, you're not the most curious of people. C'mon, let's get you outta here."

She strides forward and undoes his straps. He's still confused.

"I'm confused," he admits.

Mystique sighs.

"As I said, you're so, so _incurious _for a guy who's job is basically journalism. I mean, all of your interns mysteriously and gruesomely die, and you don't even notice or care?"

"They were all you?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"Most of them anyways. We needed to keep an eye on you. I always guessed you were behind it all."

"You could have told me."

"You'd have forgotten anyway."

He laughs then, and feels lighter for it. "That's true."

She pulls him to his feet, and Charles remembers himself.

"What happened to Hank? How did you get in here?"

"Erik's dealing with him," she says simply. "C'mon, let's go."

He waits under the stars, on a deckchair outside Old Woman Josie's trailer. It's a long time before Erik returns, a bag slung over his shoulder, gun in his hand.

"Would you like a beer?" Charles asks.

Erik nods and stiffly sits in the deckchair opposite him. Charles tosses him a bottle, and lets him drink it before he asks any questions.

"What happened to Hank?" he says eventually.

"I dealt with him," Erik says.

"Okay," Charles says. He doesn't know what to say to that.

He arranges his thoughts best he can. "Hank didn't know why I'm like this, why I make myself forget, why I brainwash everyone."

Erik says nothing so Charles continues. "So it's not going to stop any time soon. I'm going to have to quit the radio show."

Saying it feels treasonous, but he knows it's true; he cannot continue to brain wash Night Vale, no matter how much he loves being a radio show host.

Erik smiles then, and opens the bag. The weird helmet is inside it.

"I'm not scientist," Erik says, "But I don't think your mutation goes through this, right? So if you put it on, you can't control anyone. So you can keep doing the show."

"Erik," Charles says, touched. "Thank you. I was an idiot, okay? I'm so sorry."

Erik nods, like that's what he was expecting. "You still are an idiot."

"I know," Charles says. "I'm sorry," he says again. Erik flicks a wrist and another beer floats over to Charles, like a physical acceptance of Charles' apology.

"You're going to have a lot more time now. No more perfect Hank," Erik says.

"Yes," Charles says. He can feel it now, a quiet buzzing in Erik's thoughts, a golden coloured hum.

Erik looks at him again, and tilts his head, and Charles says, "yes," again and drops his beer and then he's out of his chair and he's kissing Erik and they both taste like beer and the deckchair is too small for the both of them, and Charles is pretty sure he can hear Angel and Mystique laughing from inside the trailer-

so all and all, their kiss is imperfect, but Charles can live with that.


End file.
